


The Captains and the Kings

by gwyneth rhys (gwyneth)



Category: Kings (TV 2009)
Genre: Character Death Fix, Other, Personal Growth: Slow Burn Edition, Post-Series, Rescue Missions, referenced suicide attempts
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-02-15
Updated: 2018-02-15
Packaged: 2019-03-18 19:51:22
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 10,565
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13688625
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/gwyneth/pseuds/gwyneth%20rhys
Summary: He stood for a moment gazing up at the night sky clotted with stars. As a boy he'd been fascinated by exploration and seafaring, and had learned how to steer by the sky when the king took them sailing. Every constellation in this hemisphere, every visible planet, had once been familiar to him, and he tried to name the ones he could recall, but they were too few, now. He'd let other interests take their places.





	The Captains and the Kings

**Author's Note:**

  * For [innie](https://archiveofourown.org/users/innie/gifts).



The rustle of the bedsheets woke Jack from his half-sleep; he passed a hand over his eyes and turned on his side to see Lucinda crawling under the covers, where she snugged up tight against him. "I'm pregnant," she said, voice low but unmistakably jubilant. It took a moment for her words to register; he sat up abruptly, staring at her open-mouthed, heart pounding in a martial rhythm. She nodded at his gaping-idiot face, smiling, happier than he'd seen her since the day they announced the engagement. "Yes," she said to his unasked question. "Really." _They could get out of here. Well—she could get out of here._ Jack wasn't likely to go anywhere but six feet under, but a few minutes' freedom was still something different, and anything different from the past year was good.

He reached past her to turn on the music so whoever was listening tonight couldn't hear. The king and queen would know soon enough, he wanted to enjoy this for a few minutes, just the two of them. "How long?" Jack stroked her hair, a laugh percolating through his lungs. "Does she know?"

Squinting, Lucinda thought about it. "The last time we made love was...five weeks ago. And yes, Thomasina does know, obviously I had to ask for the test. We won't know everything for certain till the first doctor's appointment, though."

He dropped an affectionate kiss on her cheek, pulled her tighter. _They could get out of here at last. He might even have a few days of light before..._ "Are you—are you happy?" What a stupid question, of course Lulu was happy: this torture would end. She could live like a human being again, maybe even be allowed to see her family. Jack had fulfilled his requirements, and she'd have the baby demanded of them and then be quietly swept behind the scenes of court life.

For a long time he'd reassured Lucinda that if it happened and they had their heir, they'd merely send Jack to Silas's private prison. So long as she stayed the pleasantly acquiescent airhead Rose wanted for a daughter-in-law and helped her raise a properly ruthless, hopefully male, child, Lucinda was of value, she'd be all right. But as the months stretched on, locked in their rooms, all Jack's luster had rubbed off and the reassurances meant less, and she wanted out as much as he did. He wondered from time to time if she would care what happened to him, if they ever got out. But now—now he knew she did, and he had to be honest with her, she deserved that much after enduring for so long.

"When they stop torturing you and let you go, I'll truly be happy." She ran her fingers through his hair.

"Then you'll never be."

Jack didn't care that they'd probably kill him. He'd tried enough times on his own. His suicide attempts had all come in the first six or seven months of their captivity, from a peculiar cocktail of despair and boredom. After he'd been thwarted enough, he'd simply given up feeling anything at all. But now...now.

Lulu frowned. He really did love her, in his way, once they'd made it past all the betrayal and acrimony and hopelessness—she was his friend, the only one he'd ever truly had besides Michelle. He stared hard at her. "You know this, I think you've known this all along. They'll never let me go alive, but this is your ticket." Jack put his hand on her belly, warm through the nightgown. "Grab it and go and don't look back." He could see the objection start, her mouth opening, but he shook his head. "Go, and don't look back. Tell the baby about me, if you can. That I wasn't only what the court records say I was."

"Oh Jack. I never wanted it to be like this."

She began to cry, like she had so many nights in the early days, but he tugged her chin up and said, "Uh-uh. Happy, okay? It'll be all right."

 

* * *

 

In the end, they didn't have to worry about it, anyway.

After he'd been imprisoned with Lucinda, there'd been a revolving door of servicemen and women assigned to their guard detail. It was the lowest assignment one could get stuck with in the Gilboan Security Service—probably they endured as long as possible to get good reviews in their jackets before getting reassigned, grateful to end up riding a desk in some godforsaken place like Ekron or whatever.

So, honestly, Jack hadn't paid much attention to Gabriel when he'd come on board a few months before, other than to note the flirtatious way he looked at Jack on occasion. He didn't mind the insouciance: it served as useful fuel for his fantasies, and he needed those if he was ever to get Lulu pregnant.

Still, it wasn't as if Jack could have expected Gabriel to pop up outside their door at the Vineyard less than two nights after Lucinda announced the pregnancy, long past his daytime shift and with his gun drawn, storming the castle to rescue the captive princess—and her fiancé. It took him a few seconds to grasp what was happening and what Gabriel's intention was, but when he did he held out a hand for a gun, slid on some shoes and tossed Lucinda's jacket to her, and covered Gabriel on his six. At the end of the corridor another man waited, the lower half of his face covered, and he opened the door to the back stairs. Gabriel took them out the mansion's old servants' entrance, disused after the coup in favor of metal detectors at the front of the building. He'd hesitated at the door, wondering if this would be how they'd handle his execution, but he could tell this man wasn't the type to waste time: he'd have just entered the room and shot him dead, no pretense of escape. He reminded Jack of his own men, a lifetime ago when he'd been a captain, when he'd been useful. As soon as they were outside, Gabriel had pushed Lulu toward another operative, who rushed her into the back seat of a rain-spattered black SUV. It was cold and her breath hung in the air; all she had on her feet were slippers and he worried she might not be warm enough. She reached out for Jack as they tried to close the door, terror on her face.

"It's all right, it's all right," he said, fast and low, trying to touch her fingers. "Be careful, do as they say," was all he managed before the door slammed shut and they peeled away, and Jack was swept ahead by bodies all around him—at least twelve people, he counted, maybe more in the darkness. "Who are you?" he demanded, because even after all this time as a prisoner, it was hard for a prick like him to give up his sense of entitlement. Or maybe it was just the high of feeling like he was a soldier again, wanting to be in on the action.

"We'll deal with that later," Gabriel muttered, pulling a cap low on his head, and they fled into the woods through a cut in the electrified fence. He was cold and wet but exhilarated as they pushed through the greenery to another waiting vehicle. To most people, the outsides of Altar Mansion, the Vineyard, and Unity Hall appeared open and friendly; it was only when you lived and worked there you became aware of the fences, sensors, dog patrols—everything a paranoid king required to keep himself safe. There were three checkpoints on the private road out from the Vineyard estate; as they reached the first, he saw two SUVs awaiting them and the men in the gatehouse lying on the floor, out cold, tied up and disarmed.

On the surface their escape had seemed hasty and helter-skelter, but now he saw how carefully it had been timed and organized. Two men and one woman piled into the vehicle with him and Gabriel and they took off; at each checkpoint they passed the same thing, switching vehicles each time. Once they reached the public roads, Gabriel pushed Jack down on the seat and the woman took her cap and jacket off, shook her hair out of its ponytail, and the men pulled their heavy black jackets and flak vests off to reveal suits and ties. _We're all out for a nice evening of drinks after work,_ or something like that.

His face was practically in Gabriel's lap, and he was good with that. He had a feeling Gabriel was, too. "You could at least tell me where you're taking me," Jack said conversationally, drawing his legs up onto the seat so he could be more comfortable admiring his rescuer. "How long do I have to wait to take a piss?"

Gabriel laughed. "Caught you after your nightcap, Highness?" Oh, that soured the mood.

"Don't call me that," Jack snapped, and after a round of huffing from the two in front, the car fell silent. Well, he couldn't complain, not really. This had been the most entertainment he'd had in a good long time.

 

* * *

 

The trip took hours, but they let him sit up after about twenty minutes, when they were outside the populated areas. The Vineyard mansion was located to the west of Shiloh on the bay; he'd watched the city lights far off in the distance recede behind him, which meant they were heading south—so not Gath, and not Gehenna. Wherever they were going, it was far enough away that he wouldn't have to worry about Silas himself. It had been hinted at during conversations with Thomasina that the king no longer left the district around Shiloh, went no farther than the Vineyard or whatever backwater village he hid his other family in, the pompous hypocrite. There wasn't much scenery to watch in the darkness, so few towns that had rebuilt much after the war, but he recognized the southern acacia forests as they got closer to the border.

No one spoke to Jack, not until they stopped at a gas station and truck stop, and he found himself battling the urge to provoke conversation. Hell, he'd take celebrity gossip at this point—he'd been locked away for so long, and as much as he'd grown to care for Lucinda, a deep thinker and witty conversationalist she was not. But Jack was a soldier, and he could read the mission objectives, so if they weren't speaking to him, he wouldn't speak to them—didn't matter what kind of service you were in, there were the unwritten rules and by God was he a rule-follower now.

When they pulled into the station, Gabriel tossed him a cap and a hooded sweatshirt, and Jack put it on, opening the door. "Wait," Gabriel said, and yanked the cap off. "You look stupid, but at the same time too much like you—way too conspicuous. Here," and he mussed Jack's hair, handed him a pair of heavy-framed glasses, and pulled the hood over his head. Jack was fairly certain the glasses made him look like an idiot, but the hoodie definitely fit more with the rest of his look, since they'd pulled him out wearing sweatpants and a t-shirt. Since no one seemed to notice him inside the shop when they picked up some snacks and paid for the gas, his disguise worked—or maybe no one really remembered Prince Jonathan Benjamin. How long would it be before his abduction made the news, and how would Silas spin it? There was a television high on the wall just above the counter, and after he'd used the lavatory, as he was waiting for the others to do the same, he watched it with fascination: the channels and programs they'd been allowed in their rooms had been carefully monitored, and he hadn't seen the news, even in its fictional, Silas-approved state, since he'd been locked away.

They returned to the car, following the River Dan. Jack nodded off, half-aware of his surroundings, until he was awakened fully by the crunch of gravel beneath their slowing wheels and he heard the driver pull the parking brake. Gabriel nudged him with an elbow. "You have arrived at your destination." Jack threw him a wry glance as they all climbed out of the SUV.

"Where's _here_?" Jack stretched his arms high, rolled his shoulders, did a few lunges. God, but he was out of shape. The others pulled gear from the cargo and Gabriel nodded his head toward them. Jack scowled. "What am I going to do, call the king's chief of security and give them my coordinates? I have nothing on me." They knew that, but Jack supposed they'd be asked by whoever was in charge if he was clean, or if he'd been out of their sight at any point during the...what were they calling this? A rescue? A prison break?

Gabriel looked him up and down, not in the sly, slightly interested way he'd done before, but in a clear message-sending way, and Jack wanted to haul him back in the vehicle, knock that smirk right off his plush lips, run his hands over Gabriel's burnished skin. He'd always been a slut for men with military bearing. And he liked men who weren't afraid of him. Odd, how quickly he was coming back to himself now he was no longer under Silas's shadow. " _Here_ is just before the border in Arcadia," Gabriel said. "The troops have all been shifted up north since the truce."

So there _was_ a truce—Jack had wondered about that. He'd thought maybe his cousin would take the reins of CrossGen and do...whatever it was that his uncle had done to keep the war going, ensuring that Silas's melodramatic tank stunt and alliance with Gath didn't have legs, but clearly some other game was afoot. Good. That meant Jack didn't have to give a damn about Gilboa's future welfare.

"But we haven't _crossed_ the border?" They must have thought he'd panic because they looked at each other, concerned.

Gabriel said, "It's safer. I know that's hard to believe, but everyone down here shields us, and there are extradition treaties with all the neighboring countries now. Hide in plain sight is the safest option. There were two other cars besides the one that took Miss Wolfson, one went north toward Gath, the other west to Port Prosperity. Those are the ones they'll follow."

"You should rest," the woman said.

He looked around the compound. "Is the plan simply you dumping me here and moving on, or might I at least know who to thank for getting me out? Obviously I know Gabriel, but..."

She shrugged. "Sharon. I was on your sister's detail before—well, the attempt on the king's life." Funny, he had never noticed her, but then he didn't have to notice their people before. Stuart had been the only serviceman worth his bother, and that was mostly because he'd been the first one to ever make it clear that if Jack was giving, he was taking. A perfect relationship.

Jack held his hand out and she looked at it for a beat, as though it might be contaminated, before shaking it, her face shifting from icy to warm. "There are quarters set up for you in that building over there," and she pointed to her left. "It's not the mansions, but at least you're free to come and go." Would they really allow him to just—take off, if the mood struck, having put so much into his escape? It was very clear they had invested a great deal and he had some particular value they wished to make use of.

The place she'd indicated was the last in a cluster of dilapidated wood buildings that looked as if they hadn't been used in half a century, at least. Some kind of lumber mill or something; there had once been a lot of small company towns, before Gilboa was unified and had subsumed so many of the border lands. All of them left to rot as industry and services relocated to the big cities and people were forced to either move or starve to death. All of it lost to unending war.

The man who'd been driving handed Jack a duffel. "Cal," he said, shaking Jack's hand. "I was in the Air Forces. We took the liberty of gathering a few of your things." So this was an army of sorts with military backgrounds, not simply a splinter of the Security Service. Who was its general? he wondered again, but he had a sinking feeling he already knew. "Let's get you inside, you really ought to have some rest. I was only able to get a few of your things, but there's more clothing and necessities inside. It's not posh, but you were at the front..."

"Come on," Gabriel said and took his arm. "Maybe you don't need sleep, but it's been over forty-eight hours for me."

Their makeshift dormitory had obviously once been offices, renovated to contain multiple smaller rooms, and Gabriel showed him the last one down the hall. Jack took in the bed and green sleeping bag, the brown wardrobe in the corner, a table beside the bed with a small orange lamp. It looked like it had been decorated by someone in possession of an early '70s catalog and colorblindness. "What's the roof like?" he asked.

"Excuse me, sir?"

With a withering glance, Jack said, "Please, God, no more of that." He pointed up. "The roof, can I get up there and is it usable?"

"It—I don't know. Never been up there, I doubt anyone has. To be honest, we haven't been here much at all outside of planning for this operation. I imagine you could get up there, though."

Jack gathered the sleeping bag and pillow from the bed. "The weather's nice down here, and I've had enough of being in a small room to last a lifetime."

"Oh. Of course." Gabriel shook his head. "Let me grab my stuff. Get my knuckles rapped if I don't keep an eye on you."

There were a ton of questions Jack might ask about that, but he was tired, now that he was thinking about it. There'd be time for questions in the daylight. "Suit yourself." It was a sad attempt to cover how much he wanted the company, and Gabriel rolled his eyes as he showed Jack where the stairwell was.

The roof was primarily a bird haven, judging by the shit everywhere, but it was serviceable for sleeping. He stood for a moment gazing up at the night sky clotted with stars. As a boy he'd been fascinated by exploration and seafaring, and had learned how to steer by the sky when the king took them sailing. Every constellation in this hemisphere, every visible planet, had once been familiar to him, and he tried to name the ones he could recall, but they were too few, now. He'd let other interests take their places.

Behind him the access door creaked open; Gabriel had an armful of his own stuff as well as a small tarp and paraffin lamp. Jack kicked away some debris, threw the sleeping bag onto the tarp, and climbed in, and Gabriel followed suit, setting his handgun to the side. He might be waiting for Jack's questions about this whole operation to begin, seemed almost to lean towards Jack, eager.

"Thank you, again." Jack stared up at the stars—cosmic tendrils of the Milky Way twined above him like vines in a dark forest, purple and red veils draped artfully over the constellations. "Your people took Lucinda somewhere safe, I hope."

"Yes, si—Yes. I can't tell you where. Only that the king, in banishing her, made an enemy of her father." Victor Wolfson had been second only to William in his wealth and influence, and a close second at that. Getting on his almost-in-law's bad side had been a huge tactical error. It made Jack smile.

Jack nodded. "Good night."

 

* * *

 

It wasn't morning when Jack woke up—long past noon, though Gabriel brought breakfast to his room after Jack had taken a piss, showered, and shaved. It wasn't much, but it tasted like a fucking four-star meal at Sabine's; freedom made great seasoning. There were others living in this building—Sharon and Cal and a few whose names he would learn later, and no one did more than give him a curt nod. He really could wander wherever he chose; Gabriel was his shadow, but only for Jack's personal safety, he insisted. No longer a prison guard. Each of them wore tactical gear and kept a sidearm at all times, so maybe they weren't completely confident the Carmelions and Arcadians were their protectors.

Jack studied Gabriel as he got ready to face the day: he yearned to know more about him, find out what it was like to kiss him around that carefully trimmed goatee. Get underneath the tactical uniform and see what hid there. Drop to his knees and show his thanks in his favored way.

As though he knew exactly what Jack was thinking, Gabriel stroked his fingers over the beard, the corners of his mouth, smiling. "They're ready for you," Gabriel said and jerked his head toward the door. _Oh well, time for that later._

The looming, cavernous building at the center of the compound was dusty and drafty, and they went up two floors into an alcove, where Ephram Samuels sat, leaning forward with his hands steepled underneath his chin, elbows on knees. Looking as though he were at ease in silent prayer, and not a man resurrected. His heart beat wildly, Jack couldn't quite believe his eyes and he blinked, a shudder running up his spine.

"Thought you were dead." He said it as blandly as he could, but Jack wanted to rush to embrace him. To put his ear to Ephram's beating heart, if this was in fact not a vision.

Ephram sat back, smiling that cryptic smile, his kind eyes alight. "That was the point."

"William's teams are usually better than that." The King's Guards loyal to Cross had even frightened Jack at times.

"Usually. But what use a prophet who cannot foresee his own fate?" He shrugged a shoulder. "But it's a lesson in the importance of good personal relationships."

Ah. "You had yourself an inside man." Had he been planning it when they'd met the night before the coronation? What a poker face, if so.

He chuckled. "I did sustain some wounds." He pulled the collar of his sweater to the right, showing Jack a puckered exit wound in front of his shoulder. "I couldn't see a way around that completely, not if I wanted your uncle to believe his success. My range of motion has been curtailed—I'm learning to make accommodations for the damage." Ephram had been a voluble, energetic speaker, florid, given to wide gesticulations.

Jack supposed he shouldn't have been surprised he'd survived, Samuels had always been a thinker, a planner, and despite missteps along the way, he was an expert at course-correction—something the king should have been wiser about making use of. Some said Silas would never have succeeded if not for the man who would become Reverend, despite Cross's money, despite the crown of fucking butterflies. A prophet in the hand... "Though, were it me, I'd have opted for the no actual shooting option. Hurts a lot less." He offered a small, tight smile. "I'm glad, though. Very glad." Ephram had always loved him, until the end. They'd both let William grind that into the dust.

Looking around, Jack said, "You're not doing this alone, I assume. So where's Shepherd?" Then he had a thought: "Or is this Michelle's doing? I thought she was back in the warm loving bosom of her family now that the baby's born." Or so he'd heard—Thomasina'd told him that in a tone of voice meant to remind him of Michelle's golden halo.

Ephram shook his head. "You always were clever." How many times had Ephram warned Jack that cleverness wasn't a substitute for wisdom.

"If I was clever, I'd never have thrown in with my uncle." Or let his bitterness and ambition run wild. What a terrible king he'd have made without the smoothing of Ephram or Shepherd on his sharpest edges: the worst of his father and his mother.

"No, you wouldn't have." Ephram rose and embraced Jack. He stiffened, a momentary spike of fear rushing up his spine that they'd brought him here to answer for his crimes to his former spiritual advisor. But Ephram only put his hand to Jack's face, his eyes brilliant. "I am relieved you're safe and here with us. It's time to put our mistakes behind us, to look to the future. You can do that, can't you? You've learned from your mistakes." There was an unspoken bit about God assuring him of that in there, Jack was reasonably certain.

 _How would I know?_ he wanted to say. _I've been walled up in a couple of overdecorated, dusty rooms for the express purpose of breeding an heir._ He exhaled as dramatically as he could; he'd always enjoyed the drama. "That offers a question—the king pulled me out of my rooms once in a great while and brought me to table. I think he missed having someone to spar with and emotionally pummel into submission. He told me you'd come to him in a visitation, the night he returned to the throne. One is usually dead if one appears in ghostly visitations."

That left brow arced up, always so expressive. "Guilt plays tricks with the mind."

"So does God."

Ephram threw his head back and laughed. Jack was about to ask for the story when he heard the door open and turned. Of course it was David, not his sister, and yeah, Jack was disappointed: he wondered if he'd ever have the chance to see her again and beg forgiveness. He looked Shepherd over. The last time he'd seen God's favorite he'd been gloating as Silas shook the false crown at Jack.

But maybe...he'd never really been gloating. His puppy-dog face was no different now than when he'd thanked Jack for saving him from the firing squad. Maybe Jack was simply an uncharitable bastard who'd blown every chance for a friendship out of petty jealousy over a crown he thought he deserved but had never done anything to earn.

So, yeah, all right, he had grown up a little. Score one for imprisonment, nil for Prince Jonathan's own self-actualization. Still a few hours on the scoreboard left, though.

Ephram and David were looking at Jack like he was a shiny new toy. "Oh." There was a cost to the rescue. "So you _are_ putting together some little army to take on the king. And you wish me to throw in."

"You might say that," David acknowledged, and a—a goddamned _dog_ came trotting up lick his hand. Even David's dog was golden. Apparently there was no end to his magnificence; Jack still couldn't believe Michelle's infertility had been cured by one night with the bastard. No one had ever stood a chance against him. "It's not little, though. The army."

A noise of disbelief came from Jack's throat. "And my part in it is..."

"You were a good soldier, Jack," Ephram said. "Whatever poison festering inside you that William nurtured, that your father manipulated—it doesn't disprove what has always been true. You were a good soldier, a leader of men."

It'd be funny if it weren't so absurdly tragic. _By all means, let's forget about the fact that I had a minister executed and threatened my twin sister with the same._ Jack held his hands out— _come on_. But Ephram squeezed his shoulder, hard enough to hurt; he'd gone woefully soft in his captivity. "Something you must know: your father was the one who withdrew your overwatch the day you were captured."

Not that Jack was all that surprised, but he also knew precisely why Ephram was telling him that now—stoke those fires of outrage, watch Jack burn. He'd always been good at burning. There were probably some incredibly creative excuses Silas had devised; such an easy way to rid oneself of one's queer son. "And yet you never told me before. That's awfully convenient."

David decided to pipe up, taking a step forward. "We're not telling you that now to enlist you in our cause. There are plenty of reasons to join us, and some not to, it will be your choice. But all the cards should be on the table. No more secrets, no more lies." Jack rolled his eyes, looked down at the dog, who was staring up at Jack expecting to be petted, he supposed. So he did, because he didn't want them to see how much this was getting to him and blunting his attempts at the sarcastic distance he'd always cultivated before. There was a reputation to maintain, after all, but it was a lot harder when everything was so intense. When he was a shell of himself.

With a tilt of his head, Jack eventually brought his eyes to meet David's. "So you just, what—bounce from alliance to alliance, however it suits you, to get the throne? Or was it all simply to get inside my sister's panties, and the throne was a bonus?"

David, because he was always the better man, gave him a withering glare but didn't rise to the bait. "I forgot what a prick you can be. Here I thought I missed you."

"Sorry," Jack said, shaking his head. "Old habits and such." The Gilboan crown wasn't a blood dynasty, Jack had no more right to it than David, and he didn't want it anymore anyway—so why be such a jackass about it? He pressed his lips together. "Whatever it is you want with me, you're wasting your time. I'm done with all of it. Spent." Whatever the hell they'd been doing the past year, it wasn't nearly as much fun as Jack had been having; they didn't _know._

They wanted him to hear them out. Jack worked his jaw back and forth, torn, because he knew just how effortlessly they could appeal to his ego and his aspirations to be in charge; he was still a shallow bastard. He motioned with a princely wave— _lead on_. They took him to the floor above, filled with dusty desks and chairs scattered about, two long conference tables facing whiteboards. Sharon, Cal, and some of the others he recognized from his quarters were there, chatting, as well as a number of men and women he didn't know yet. In a low voice, Jack asked, "What are your vetting procedures?"

"Thorough," Ephram assured him, but didn't elaborate.

There were introductions, but Jack didn't bother remembering anyone's names, seeing as how he wasn't planning to stay long enough to need them. The only one he thought worthy of his attention was their commander, Michael Azaria. "It's a pleasure to meet you, sir," Michael said, shaking his hand, and Jack waved him off.

"I'm no 'sir' anymore. Neither prince nor officer."

"Michael was a lieutenant colonel with the 82nd, on the southern front," Ephram informed him. "While many of us have military experience, none had officer training, as you two have." Intriguing that someone so high up the chain of command would be a turncoat.

With a squint, Jack said to Ephram, " _You_ were an officer, by Silas's side when he became general. Would you belittle that?" He pointedly ignored David's captaincy, since that had been a prank by the king to piss Jack off—and also because he wasn't above irritating David, even now.

The side of Ephram's mouth lifted. "I preached and comforted the wounded and guided the dying. My service is an ancient vintage, it's gone sour." God, he'd missed the real Ephram, the one with the wicked sense of humor who liked to make fun of himself most of all. Nothing had ever really been the same after the dedication of Shiloh.

Jack considered Michael, studying his hands, the way he held his shoulders. Of course, Jack wouldn't have known everyone in Gilboa's army, but somehow he thought he'd have heard of a lieutenant colonel in the paratroops by reputation at least. He'd have to see what he could find later.

Michael offered, "I moved on to the King's Guard after the—well, after."

"And yet here you are. Didn't like the tasks or the hours?" Jack asked. The King's Own was a plum assignment, true, but for a lieutenant colonel to give up such a promotion track in a never-ending campaign seemed...odd. But then, look who was talking.

"Didn't like the man."

Jack would have said join the club, but apparently everyone here had. He pulled up a chair and turned it around, straddled it, and sat. This didn't read right to him, but what matter? "And now you want someone with not only officer experience, but a court insider, too."

David glanced first at Michael, then at Ephram. The dog sat down on Jack's right foot, _oof_. "In a nutshell."

He reached down, petting the dog's soft ears. "Sorry to disappoint—you know what, no, I'm not. Not really." Jack had allowed himself to be used for his status and his ambitions twice already, he wasn't interested in finding out if the third time was the charm. "You might recall I've been locked up for over a year. In that time, Silas has changed everything from who cuts the grass and cleans the toilets to his personal bodyguards at least twice over. The only one remaining is that viper Thomasina. I can't be of use, clearly, as I don't even recognize one of the King's Own." He turned to Sharon and Cal. "Is there any coffee in here, or tea?"

Sharon got him a cup of slightly burnt coffee from a pot in the far corner of the room; he actually enjoyed that taste—a nice reminder of life at the front. "I'm of no use to you if what you seek is an insider—and I've gone soft in my captivity, so wouldn't be much more useful as a soldier, either. But most important, I have no interest. Whatever you're planning, I have no desire to participate."

"Not even if action against your father might put you on the throne?" David asked, as if that was still the golden ring. It was also completely disingenuous, since they both knew God had chosen David for Gilboa, not Jack—although Jack was almost impressed at how far David had developed his lying skills, how well he'd learned to appeal to people's desires.

"It's not a blood dynasty. There's no guaranteed right of succession," and Jack paused, his gut clenching at the memory of the endless succession arguments and the minister lying face down in a pool of his own blood, his sister shouting curses at him. Knowing she was right and he was worse than Silas. He set the coffee down, stomach roiling, and took a deep breath, glaring at Ephram. "As you yourself pointed out, God doesn't want me there. Let's stop trying to pretend this is about me."

David snapped, "Then help us depose Silas and He can sort out His pick for the throne later." Oh, that Shepherd naiveté and those little sparks of self-righteous anger. Jack should have expected that sort of thing, maybe even had missed its entertainment value.

But it told Jack something: he was annoyed at wanting Jack's his help, a little bit afraid, maybe desperate. Honestly, David's emotional turbulence would be the end of Jack, he was certain. Jack sighed. "You know, you were a lot more interesting before you were boning my sister and kissing my father's despotic ass."

The room took a decided turn toward the icy; Jack had obviously lost the ability to read the temperature. "My apologies. Go on telling me your plans, so I can pretend to listen attentively before I rebuff you once again."

Ephram closed his eyes, that familiar long-suffering face. _Look,_ Jack wanted to say, _you take your pleasures where you can._ But it no longer held the appeal it once had; David wasn't really his rival anymore. If the puppy wanted the crown, more power to him—he and Michelle could make buckets of fat, idiot babies they could then raise up into appropriately emotionally crippled heirs.

Michael decided to—wisely—ignore the petty bickering and went to the whiteboard to sketch out some rough maps, outlining a basic plan of attack. Silas's temporary truce with Gath had crumbled after David's exile and he'd leveraged his strange friendship with Premier Shaw to gain the tacit support of both their navy and ground forces. Though it wasn't mentioned, Jack assumed they'd set the stage for a coup after first-strike destabilization efforts—possibly terrorist-style attacks on court, strategic strikes on royal targets within Shiloh. Not once was William, or Andrew, or even Abaddon mentioned. _Odd, that._

"And what of my uncle and cousin?"

"Your uncle's dead, I thought you knew." Michael scrutinized Jack. "We were...dispatched with the assignment shortly after I joined his guard." He was searching for something in Jack's manner, looking him up and down, and Jack didn't like it one bit. "As for Andrew Cross, he'll be best dealt with when we depose the king. He's insinuated himself far too closely with your parents, it might...endanger the princess."

"Whose idea was that?" Jack said, scoffing. Andrew should be the first rat exterminated in this operation. Rose would never let any harm come to Michelle; that was an absurd excuse. He was beginning to see just why they wanted him in on this—anyone who knew anything about the Royal Benjamins would have understood that.

"Mine," David answered, still irritated, as if to say _is our truce over so soon?_

With that line cut off, Jack turned his attention to Michael. "You said you were with the..." he prompted. Michael responded with a distracted "the 82nd." Jack examined the drawings on the whiteboard—they seemed too detailed for their discussion. Admittedly he was coming in in the middle of an operation, but something was off here, so Jack quickly came up with a covering question: "Know anyone still in the army you can read in on this, or is all the personnel support coming from Gath other than the ones already in this compound?"

Before Michael could respond, Ephram said, "We can discuss that later."

The next few hours were spent half listening to a strategy session with the team leaders. Which intrigued Jack, since he couldn't imagine anyone who'd earned the rank of lieutenant colonel—and he'd have had to earn it, unlike the promotions to major and captain that the mercurial king had once given Jack and David—giving the first good goddamn about a subordinate's input.

It had been an endlessly recurring fantasy during his captivity, the various ways Jack might exact his revenge. All the little tics and foibles of his father, the vastness of his hubris, that Jack might press to his advantage. Yet now that he was here and faced with the opportunity to scheme, he couldn't seem to muster the care. There was nothing compelling enough to risk his newfound freedom.

He got his own coffee this time and leaned on the windowsill, waiting till they finished, all eyes on him, expectant.

With a slight shake of his head and wide eyes, Jack said, "I haven't altered my position. I'm done, spent. I'm out. I gave at the office. And even if I wanted to participate—which I don't—I'm telling you I would be of no use to you. That's the God's honest truth."

Ephram stared at him in disappointment; well, this time Jack was happy to let him down. "May we have the room?" Ephram asked the others; they shot each other looks as they gathered their things and left.

Privacy saved Jack the trouble of couching what he wanted to say next in more cautious terms. "I was a mere captain, my promotion to major was ceremonial, a way to stave off embarrassment to the crown and because it suited the king's whimsy. My skills and ability to command are limited. I'll tell you whatever you want to know, but the value is meager. And I want something in return."

David turned his eyes to the ceiling, a small smile on his face. "It's kind of comforting that some things never change. Still looking out for yourself."

There was no need to rise to the bait. "I want a passport, either Attolian or Gathan, I don't care which. And two hundred thousand in Austerian marks—deposited in an offshore account."

"We don't have that kind of—" Michael began before Ephram cut him off with a wave of his hand.

"Done." David had never been so confident—the both of them were so changed, Jack thought. Maybe this operation of theirs really would succeed. "I was hoping you'd want to work with us, but I'll take whatever's on offer."

Ephram, however, remained suspiciously silent.

"I'll get your requests started," David assured him. "It'll take a while. There's a—sort of mess hall on the ground floor. You can get something to eat." Jack left them to their discussion.

When he stepped outside the doors, Gabriel was waiting for him. "That went well!" he said cheerfully, and Jack made a face, flipped him off.

"You needn't stick by me, I'm a fully grown boy." But in fact, Jack didn't mind his company—he was _fine_ and seeing him like this, kitted up in the tactical gear instead of the blue blazers and dress trousers of the Security Service, only added to the appeal.

"I noticed that." Gabriel shrugged. "Can't do it, I'm afraid. Part of my brief is to keep eyes on you at all times while you're with us." His tongue darted out, crossed his lower lip.

"Do they think I'll steal the good silver?"

Gabriel laughed. "I was hoping you'd stay with us, but I take it you weren't persuadable. Pity."

"I'm afraid not. But a few days remain, I think..." If Jack had wondered what Gabriel was offering before, he wondered no longer; it had been a long time since a man had directed such blatant desire his way, and flame curled through his lower belly, languorous, sweet. "I've tired of being inside. Walk with me?"

They went in the direction of the fields to the west of the buildings, its pathways overgrown in spots with wildflowers and meadow grasses. Amazing how nature took back its ownership when humans were out of the equation. He wasn't sure where he'd end up once he left them, but this area held a lot of appeal, and he could see himself spending some time in the sun, a little to the south across the border. Maybe even with a companion.

 

* * *

 

A meadowlark flew by in a flash of brilliant yellow and black, so close Jack could have grabbed him if he'd had better reflexes. The trees ringing the fields were filled with songbirds and he hadn't imagined he could miss their voices so much; he couldn't recall ever hearing birds in his captivity and their voices filled him with an unfathomable joy. After his first suicide attempt—a jump—they'd barred the windows to his rooms so they couldn't be opened, or kept him and Lucinda deep in the mansions' interiors. It was astonishing how quickly you forgot what you'd scarcely noticed before, how monumental its return. All that small magic. He watched the bird flit from branch to branch for a while, singing its magnificent song.

Jack's ass was cold now that the heat of passion had dissipated and the coolness of the grass seeped through the jacket they were lying on. "I suppose we should go back, so they don't think I've absconded with my—what are you now, exactly? Guard? Still my serviceman even without the service?" He rolled onto his side, leaning on his elbow, admiring the view of Gabriel supine in the dappled, fading sunlight. He wiped idly at the semen on his belly.

"And here I thought this was a form of service." He smiled and it went straight to Jack's balls. "I hated seeing you locked away like that. Hated the pretense of being your protection when in fact that's all I was—a prison guard."

"I was led to believe that being on my detail was merely a step above latrine duty in the infantry. Were you assigned, then, when you joined this—whatever it is," Jack asked, waving a hand in the direction of their command post. "Or did you seek it out because you knew what I was?"

The side of Gabriel's mouth twitched. "I'd always thought maybe you were. I knew what it was like to posture so deliberately, what the party prince stories might be covering. When your father called you a faggot at the trial, I knew it wasn't a random insult—it was targeted, the way people like us are always targeted by those like King Silas."

Jack felt as though he might at long last let out a breath he'd been holding for decades. "Must have been quite a disappointment when you entered the service." He was used to people desiring him not for who he was but what they wanted him to be, but he no longer possessed anything to desire, with his lack of status, his slack, sallow skin, and his posture of defeat. And yet somehow, Gabriel had wanted him. Or maybe it was just pity, but Jack wasn't proud anymore—well, not much—and he would take it.

Which reminded Jack of something. Abaddon had escaped, Silas had told him that—he'd preened over it, really, confiding in Jack that he'd sent Andrew to open his cell, a job he might have once relied upon Jack to carry out, before the trial. Jack swept his lips over Gabriel's warm shoulder. "When you came on the detail, did they brief you on the king's secret prison at the old storehouses? Were you ever assigned there, or anyone you knew?"

"You mean where they kept the Butcher of Carmel? Superstitious whisperings, of course, and we were warned against discussing it or talking to the King's Own. Abaddon vanished after your father's return, was all we heard. Assumed to have crossed the border to the south. All those years nearly under our noses, never answering for his crimes..." He shrugged, reaching behind Jack's head and pulling him down for a kiss.

After a few minutes of enjoying Gabriel's talented mouth, Jack drew back. "So it _was_ common knowledge among the security details that the king's guards saw to someone."

"I wouldn't say common, no. I'd been in six months before I heard whispers, and unless you knew someone on the inside, which I did—Andrew Cross's serviceman, in fact—"

"How well situated is he with the king?" Jack interrupted. "My cousin." He'd thought the king's anecdotes about Andrew taking Jack's place in the family were designed solely to wound; Silas had been just as repulsed by the creepy little fucker as anyone.

Gabriel smiled fondly. "You never call him your father, have you noticed? The king, or Silas. Not that I can blame you." It would be convenient to proclaim himself the wronged party, but those who might believe in Jack's victimhood hadn't seen what a petty tyrant he'd so quickly become, without Ephram's or David's tempering influence.

Pieces were falling into place. He didn't want to go back; he could lie here with Gabriel for days rediscovering his libido, but Jack began pulling his clothes on. Now that the sun was setting even Arcadia was too cold for naked open-air lounging. It was a shame such beauty had been left to rot, this countryside should have been overrun with tourists and second-home owners seeking warmth. The rich had the beautiful southwest coast as their playground, but here... If he'd been king, he'd have done something to—well. Perhaps he could put a word in David's ear about it. "Let's go back," Jack said, pushing his tongue past Gabriel's lips, devouring his mouth. "You look like a man who needs a meal."

In the mess Jack sat with Gabriel and his friends—it wasn't good food, but it was hearty, and the company was excellent. He'd missed the camaraderie he'd only ever known as a soldier, the easy bonds that developed when you fought for a common cause, but he could never be one of them, he knew. They lingered over coffee and talked as he waited for David or Ephram to show up with news of his requests, but they never did.

"Will you sleep on the roof again tonight?" Gabriel asked him when they went back to their rooms, everyone else having wandered off to watch a movie in the common area.

"Yes, I think so. Though surely they must allow you some time off away from me?"

"It was my choice." Not an answer to the question, but an answer to an unspoken one. Something about the certainty of his words, the way he looked at Jack when he said it, made his breath go shallow. No one had spoken to him that way in a very, very long time, not even Joseph, not really—Gabriel had no need to hide what he was, no concern whether his desires were legal or not. And now Jack could do the same. He truly was free.

Jack grabbed a few things from his room and went to the roof. The stars felt so close he could gather them in his palm, scatter them with one breath like the puffs from a dandelion. He hoped wherever she was Lucinda was watching the same night sky, standing in the open air and breathing in the scents. If their coup succeeded, he might be able to see his child, Jack realized. He didn't want to be part of this, but there was—

Behind him, Jack heard the door to the roof open and he turned, pushing the thoughts away. He grabbed Gabriel by the front of his shirt and hauled him forward, kicking the door closed as he kissed him. He probably should go in search of Ephram, but...he'd been denied this part of himself for so long that he couldn't find the courage to leave it. And it wasn't like things couldn't wait till morning.

 

* * *

 

As dawn shaded to daylight, Jack made his way to the offices, where he found Sharon setting out some papers. "Where's the farmhand?" he asked, and she raised an eyebrow at that.

"Gath, I believe," she said with a shrug. It was her go-to gesture, he'd noticed, which amused him: there didn't seem to be much that got past her cool, disinterested demeanor and he found he liked her. If women had been allowed in combat, he'd have loved to have had her in his company. "Seeing to your requests. He left last night."

"How is he getting up there?" Jack asked, since they were based in the south.

"Private plane." At Jack's surprise she said, "Gath money, Wolfson money...who knows. It's all the same to us." She handed him her phone, with a message on it that the documents had been secured, deposit confirmation to follow.

He took it on good faith that they'd lived up to their end of the bargain, so true to Jack's word, he spent the rest of the morning answering Ephram and Michael's questions, debriefing the entire failed coup plot—at least, what he'd known of it, which in hindsight he realized wasn't enough. After a brief break for lunch and a chance for Jack to gather up his things, they reconvened to pull their strategy together, now that David was back. Jack still wasn't certain where he might go or what he wanted to do, but one thing he _was_ increasingly certain about was how off-kilter Michael appeared to be. Maybe he didn't want to be part of the plan, but he didn't want them to march straight into disaster, either.

Jack listened for an hour, agitated and restless, as they schemed. Ephram, David, and Michael would head to Gath before the first strikes, assembling their army. The rest of them would destabilize with bombings outside Court in Unity Hall, the airport and rail stations, the ministry buildings; while first responders and the national guard were busy, ground forces from Gath would then sweep in at four key points, joined by resistance cells waiting in Ekron.

The longer Jack listened, the greater his certainty that he couldn't walk away from them and allow them to fail. They would be slaughtered. Oh, he hated himself for this—why couldn't he just walk away and leave them to the fate they'd chosen?

He leaned over and tapped Ephram on the shoulder, asking with his eyes if he might say something. When Ephram motioned for him to speak, Jack turned his gaze on Michael. "If Carmel's a staging ground for a resistance, I assume Abaddon's participation as well."

Michael gave him a quizzical look, David as well. "I'm sorry, I don't—"

"What are you on about, Jack?" David interrupted. "Abaddon died years ago." Jack rolled his eyes. Really? He was sticking with that despite having been imprisoned with the man, however briefly? Jack wanted to reach over and whack him on the head.

He ignored David, for the meantime, as he had bigger fish to fry. "What was the code name for the old storehouses where Abaddon was imprisoned?" Jack asked Michael.

Michael straightened, putting the marker down on the table. Buying himself a little time. "Code name." Jack had to hand it to him, he was good at playing dumb; Silas had chosen well, even though the cover was inferior.

"Yeah, you know, the code name used by the king and his inner circle for Abaddon's prison. The one used by the King's Own." Jack turned to David. "The place where they nearly executed you and you met the old King of Carmel."

The fog seemed to lift in farmboy's memory banks. "That was really him," he said, low, and he stared at Jack, comprehending at last. "He wasn't just some strange old man going on about Vesper Abaddon and..." His face went scarlet and Jack wondered just what the hell their conversations had been about, but this wasn't the time.

"Anyone who served with the King's Guard would know it," Jack said. "Hell, they talked about Abaddon and the prison in the Security Service. So what was the code name? Surely you recall." He stood up, pushed forward toward Michael, who took a step back, wary.

"I wasn't there long enough to—"

"But you were there long enough to know you didn't like my father," Jack said acidly, stepping closer, shouldering his way into Michael's space. The others watched in stunned silence, but Ephram was alert, familiar with this version of Jack, and he would be willing to see how it played out. _You haven't changed so much after all_ , Jack thought. _Maybe you're not so soft._ "So all right, then, apparently no one ever mentioned Gehenna in your presence. Somewhat difficult to believe, you presumably being of rank in the Guard and a lieutenant colonel before that, but let's just say for amusement's sake you were kept out of the loop. What was the inscription on the dormitory building at the Shiloh military academy?"

"What is this," Michael said with a nervous laugh, a muscle twitching at the corner of his jaw.

Jack said, more loudly, hammering each word, "What. Was the. Inscription."

Michael threw a desperate glance at the door and Jack caught the abrupt twitch of his muscles coiling, readying to move; before he could make a break for it, Jack stepped around to block his exit. "What was it? What was the inscription? Just tell me. It's a simple question with a simple answer."

Michael opened his mouth but nothing came out, his eyes darted to the side.

Jack surged forward, brought his forearm against Michael's throat, and shoved him backward over the table. As he went down, Ephram and David leapt toward Jack—he wasn't sure if they were trying to help him or to save Michael—and Michael grappled with Jack, cursing him. He tried to pull out his pistol but Jack beat him to it, nearly breaking his fingers before he could flip the safety off, tearing it from Michael's hand and ramming it against his throat.

The room was in an uproar. It felt— _good_. It felt like old times. Michael came up sputtering with outrage, red-faced but also terrified, and the brief hot flash of victory became a fire in Jack's chest. He savored it for a second, let it go, because he was different now. He had to be different. "You work for Silas, but how, exactly?" Jack asked Michael. "Where did he pluck you from? The intelligence service, or were you one of Thomasina's people?" If Michael had had any sense, he'd never have let them pull Jack out. He should never have exposed himself like this, just so they could get all the conspirators together. "You weren't from the military, it was obvious from the moment I met you."

Ephram took the gun and kept it on Michael. "You would have sent us to slaughter."

"God doesn't speak through you anymore, _Prophet_."

"Maybe not," Jack said, "but he doesn't speak to Silas anymore, either. He's got you all so brainwashed with his crown of butterflies shit." He made a noise of disgust. "This only helps to prolong the inevitable. When he finds out you failed, do you think he'll dispense mercy?" He was just like Jack: he couldn't go back to Gilboa, neither could he be absolved by the one chosen by God. No man's land.

"If you tell us what you know of the king's intentions, I won't send you back to him," David said quietly. Jack was stunned to realize he felt sorry for David—he'd never wanted this, either, only bumbled into it, and wasn't skilled enough as a commander to avoid all his people getting killed.

They'd have to question their vetting procedures, re-examine every step they'd taken to see how it had failed, devise a whole new strategy. They'd need someone who could handle those things. Hard lessons for the man who would be king to learn, but useful steps—this might make Shepherd fit for his role. Fit to be the husband of Michelle Benjamin. If she learned of Jack's involvement, would she deign to be his sister once again?

Michael chose to say nothing, only glared at Jack. Maybe he thought his silence wise, that it might buy him time for the rest of Silas's spies to extract him. Good luck with that.

"Perhaps no one studies Silas's tactics anymore, but elements of this plan were textbook Unification War," Jack said. "The very stuff we learned at the academy. I'm surprised at you, Reverend."

Ephram, bless him, actually laughed. "I'm an old fool who's let age soften his vision. You're right, I should have seen it. Straight into the lion's den."

Jack shrugged, turned his focus to Michael. "I assume he came to the king's attention during or after David's trial. His face was unfamiliar to me, but I know a military man when I see one." Jack had been...almost happy in the army. It began as a way to earn his father's favor, and became a home. "The king would have needed to restructure his entire network after the coup, it wouldn't have left him enough time to properly create a solid history for him. To create a tactical mind and command presence out of shadows and softness."

Sharon and Gabriel took Michael off their hands, hauling him out the door. Gabriel threw him a glance of undisguised admiration as he left, and Jack flashed him a smile. David was shaking his head, but there was enormous fondness in his eyes.

"So what was it?" David asked. Jack didn't know if he meant _what gave Michael away_ or... "What was the inscription at the academy? I was just a private, if you recall."

"Oh." He tilted his head, shrugged a shoulder. "There wasn't one."

David rubbed his forehead. "Come on, Jack, stay with us. You can see that we need you."

He shook his head vehemently. "If I'm caught—look, I accepted that I'd probably be executed once Silas had an heir. Maybe even welcomed it. God knows I tried often enough to end it on my own." Ephram's eyes softened—but Jack had no use for his pity. "I'm not without hope for your future success. I _want_ you to do this. But I can't be part of it." A living hell would have been a holiday compared to what Silas would cook up for him next were this to fail as well.

Ephram said, "I don't ask you to lead us into Shiloh. I don't ask that you be a soldier once again." He squeezed Jack's shoulder, the way he often had when Jack was young, and leaned in close. "But we need someone with your gifts." Jack's head shot up, he stared hard into Ephram's eyes. "Yes, gifts. In your heart you know that. Stay with us, plan with us—when the time comes, take your passport and money and go wherever you desire. Be free."

Jack sighed, and looked out the window. A few days ago he couldn't have imagined this fate. Could barely recall the scent of fresh spring air, the warmth of sunlight on his skin. The sweetness of a rooftop underneath the night sky, his skin against another's. He could walk away, save his own neck. But for once, others needed him. For once he was necessary.

With a nod, David turned and left Ephram alone with Jack. "You know," Jack said, "sooner or later, David will find out that having something isn't always as good as the wanting made it seem."

It wasn't pity Ephram looked at him with, though, only compassion. "That is his journey, and between him and God. If it helps, think of this as redemption. Righting of wrongs."

"You said that the last time I saw you. Did it work—getting yourself shot, exiling yourself? Are your wrongs righted?"

"It's a work in progress." Ephram smiled at him, fond and...fatherly.

He couldn't be King Jonathan of Gilboa, and he couldn't be Captain Jack Benjamin anymore. So who was he instead?

Maybe that was the real freedom: to find out. Jack wasn't entirely convinced this was the way to do it, but—there was time to figure that out. "Yeah. I suppose I am, too."

**Author's Note:**

> I know Reverend Samuels was lying on the ground all shot up at the end of the series and appearing as ghostly visitations, but who's to say he was really dead? Not me, certainly. I just really really like Ephram, okay?
> 
> Thanks to minim calibre for the beta. 
> 
> On [Tumblr](http://teatotally.tumblr.com/post/170895120220/new-fic-the-captains-and-the-kings)


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